Part 1

[Illustration: Irish closed the gate of the white picket fence when suddenly something hit him a tremendous blow to the head.]

Law-Star for an Outlaw

A novelet by W. C. Tuttle

A criminal trap is set to kill three men at a ranchhouse and Irish Delaney is forced into a six-gun showdown with the evil Night Hawks of Dancing Flats!

The gambling room of the Turquoise Saloon was filled to capacity that night, and the center of interest was the roulette layout, where a tall, slightly gray-haired, well-dressed man was playing the wheel alone. Not another game was in operation at that time, and the place was hushed.

“That totals seven hundred and fifty dollars, my friend,” the tall man said quietly. “Are you satisfied?”

“Slim” Duarte, swarthy, white-toothed gambler, owner of the Turquoise, smiled slowly as he replied:

“Parson, I feel that I have paid well for my seat in your little church yesterday. You publicly announced that I was more than partly responsible for poor attendance at your place of worship, and that if I would attend your church, you would attend my place of business. We are even now, my friend.”

“Thank you, Mr. Duarte. We both kept our word. It is my opinion that you received nothing from my sermon, so this will keep us even.”

The preacher tossed the money on the layout. Slim Duarte looked curiously at the minister.

“You can use money, can’t yuh, Parson?” he said quietly.

“Not that kind of money. The church doesn’t gamble. We both had our fun. You smiled at me in church--I laughed at you here. Thank you for your challenge and your entertainment--and goodnight.”

John Calvin, minister of the Dancing Flats Church, turned away from the roulette layout, and the crowd relaxed.

Standing only a few feet away from the layout was a tall, slender young man, his sombrero pulled low over a pair of hard eyes. He wore a faded, once-blue shirt, moulded to his powerful shoulders, a scarlet handkerchief knotted around his throat. Light from the oil lamps sparkled from the silver rivets on his gun-belt, and a black-handled Colt swayed outward in its short holster along his thigh.

* * * * *

No one had noticed his arrival. Not over ten minutes ago he had tied a weary, long-legged sorrel to the hitchrack beside the saloon. His eyes searched the face of the minister, who stopped, looking straight at him. They had never met before, but the cowboy said quietly:

“Yuh’re the preacher who buried my uncle. I heard about it, and I’d like to thank yuh. I’m Irish Delaney.”

[Illustration: Irish Delaney]

Irish Delaney! It was as though thoughts were whispered aloud, although there was not a sound.

“Oh, yes,” the preacher said quietly. “You are the nephew of Henry Farley. I am glad to meet you, sir.”

“Yeah, I’m the nephew of Ol’ Hank Farley, who didn’t have a chance for his white chip. You paid for his funeral and preached it. I’m much obliged to yuh.”

Then Irish Delaney turned and the crowd gave him room to walk out. He paid no attention to them as he walked slowly through the barroom and went outside. After a few moments, the minister followed him. No one mentioned Irish Delaney.

Slim Duarte turned from the roulette layout and his eyes met those of Jim Corwin, the sheriff. Corwin was tall, slightly gray, with a deep-lined face, small eyes and a wide mouth. He had been sheriff of Dancing Flats for twelve years.

Irish Delaney had left Dancing Flats seven years ago, but there were men in the crowd who had been in Dancing Flats the day Irish Delaney rode away. Jim Corwin’s eyes flashed across the faces of the crowd, before he walked away. Duarte spoke to a gambler, and the games were opened.

Almost seven years to the day since Irish Delaney rode away on a long-legged sorrel gelding. Irish was partial to long-legged sorrels. Some said it was the only color that nearly matched his own hair.

Irish had been a wild-riding kid, cold-jawed, but laughing. He had started building up his own herd. He was nineteen then--an orphan--living with his uncle, Hank Farley, who owned the 74 spread east of Dancing Flats. Irish loved Nell Shearer, daughter of Ed Shearer, who owned the Lazy S, but Ed Shearer did not want Irish Delaney as a son-in-law.

Irish Delaney cared little for Ed Shearer’s likes and dislikes, and Ed Shearer knew it, but fate stepped in to help the cause of Ed Shearer. A dance-hall girl, young and rather pretty, went for a horseback ride alone and was thrown in the desert, several miles from Dancing Flats. Fate sent Irish Delaney across that same stretch of country, and Irish found her, injured and trying to find her way home.

An hour later Irish Delaney rode into Dancing Flats, with the young lady in his arms. She couldn’t sit down, because of cactus. Nell Shearer happened to be in town--and saw them arrive. Irish was laughing over it, and carried the girl into the Turquoise. This incident was grist for Ed Shearer’s mill, and he made the most of it.

Two days later Irish Delaney rode into Dancing Flats, drew out all the money he had in the little bank and went over to the Turquoise Saloon. Slim Duarte had laughingly made the remark that he expected to have to hire a new soprano, intimating that Irish was in love with the dance-hall girl. Irish heard about the remark. He was leaving Dancing Flats today. Old Hank Farley said nothing. Advice was not what Irish Delaney wanted--he’d do as he pleased.

Irish didn’t like Jim Corwin, the sheriff, either. Irish sat into a draw poker game, where Slim Duarte was running the play, and told the suave gambler to kick the roof off the house. It was a five-handed game, but quickly slid to two-handed. Jim Corwin was in the saloon, watching Irish Delaney, while Irish watched Slim Duarte.

* * * * *

Irish had the luck of the Irish. Pot after pot went to his side of the table, and Slim Duarte realized that honesty is not always the best policy. Then the luck changed, and Irish’s winnings began taking wings. Suddenly there was a lull. Duarte was dealing. Irish picked up a card and examined a corner carefully. He laid the card down and looked intently at Duarte.

Jim Corwin moved quietly to a spot behind the young Irishman.

“Look at that card,” said Irish quietly.

He flipped the card with a forefinger and it landed in front of Duarte, who looked down at it. Irish was on his feet in a flash, drawing his gun.

“Marked with a thumb-nail!” he rasped. “You dirty crook, yuh’re dealin’ seconds!”

Jim Corwin landed on Irish’s back, trying to block his gun, but the lithe cowboy threw the sheriff over his head and into Duarte, who was trying to get out of his chair. They both went down with a crash, when a leg broke off the chair. Spectators dived for cover, the bartender hit the floor behind the bar, as the real fight started.

[Illustration: Corwin landed on Irish’s back, trying to block his gun, but the little cowboy threw the sheriff over his head and into Duarte.]

No shots were fired. Irish ignored his holstered gun, after he had thrown the sheriff’s gun the length of the saloon. They went to it with bare fists, chairs--anything in reach. Duarte went down from a left hook that almost removed his chin.

Jim Corwin was much bigger than Irish, and he knew the game of roughhouse fighting, but this fight-crazy youngster was like a wild-cat. Punches didn’t hurt him. He laughed and tore back, until Jim Corwin went down on his hands and knees, bleeding and too dazed to continue.

Irish backed against the bar, bloody, disheveled, his gun dangling from his right hand.

“Fine people!” he choked. “Crooked gambler, backed by a crooked sheriff, fleecin’ a kid. Get up, Duarte! Walk outside, both of yuh. I want the folks to see what yuh look like. Outside, before I use a gun on yuh. Start walkin’!”

They went. It was difficult, but not far to go. A big crowd had gathered in front of the Turquoise. Slim Duarte was clinging to Jim Corwin, his eyes vacant. They were a well-whipped pair. Behind them came Irish Delaney. Jim Corwin grasped a porch post and tried to shake loose from Duarte, but without any success.

Irish Delaney’s mouth laughed, but his eyes were hard.

“Damon and Pythias, folks!” he said. “Duarte played crooked and Corwin backed his play. I’m pullin’ out of Dancin’ Flats but before I go, I’d like to show yuh some true love. Corwin! Duarte!”

Corwin said, “What?” But Duarte said nothing.

“Put yore arms around Duarte and kiss him, Corwin.”

“Yuh’re--crazy.”

Irish moved in, his bleeding right fist balled tightly. “Kiss him--or we start all over again, Corwin.”

Corwin kissed Duarte. It was not a pretty face to kiss. Duarte still rather vague as to what was going on, kissed Corwin, his foot slipped off the edge of the board sidewalk, and they both fell into the street, locked together.

Irish Delaney went out to the hitchrack, mounted his sorrel and galloped out of Dancing Flats.

They heard rumors of Irish Delaney occasionally. He was leading a bad bunch in New Mexico, had been arrested near the Border by the Texas Rangers, but escaped. Neither Duarte nor Corwin ever forgot the humiliation of that day. Jim Corwin was a good sheriff. After explanations had been made, the people forgave Corwin. There was no evidence of marked cards, because somebody, possibly the bartender, had seen to that detail.

II

Irish Delaney was back and folks knew that he didn’t merely come back to thank John Calvin, their minister. Shorty Long, the deputy sheriff, with the longest neck in the country, shook his head.

“I shore do pity them Night Hawks,” he remarked in a sepulchral voice.

“You can take that remark out and bury it,” said Jim Corwin.

“Yeah, but I can still think my own thoughts, Jim. If he ever finds out who killed Hank Farley--”

“Even if Hank Farley was the Ghost Rider?”

“Even if Hank Farley was the devil himself, Jim. Blood’s a heap thicker’n water, and Hank Farley loved that hard-eyed kid.”

“Forget it, Shorty. We’ll keep an eye on Irish Delaney.”

Irish Delaney rode out of Dancing Flats, heading for the one friend he used to have in the valley, Johnny McCune, who owned a small ranch south of town. McCune and Hank Farley had been old cronies for years. On the little ranch with McCune was Tucson Thomas, an old ranchhand, badly crippled in body but strong in spirit.

Seven years had aged Johnny McCune. He stood on the little porch of his Flying M ranchhouse and peered from under the brim of his battered sombrero at Irish Delaney. Tucson came to the doorway, his skinny waist encircled with a flour-sack, a skillet in his hand.

“Howdy, Mr. McCune,” Irish said. “Tucson Thomas, how are yuh?”

“I’ll be a pug-nosed pelican!” snorted Tucson. “Irish!”

“Irish Delaney!” gasped Johnny McCune. “You--you darned kid!”

The two of them fairly swarmed into Irish, whose eyes were not hard now. Perhaps the moisture softened them up. He didn’t know what sort of a reception he could expect. This was great.

They led him into the house, seated him in the one rocker, and demanded an explanation of his return.

“You never wrote to anybody,” accused Johnny. “Not anybody.”

“No, I don’t reckon I did. I made a fool of myself before I got out, and maybe nobody wanted a letter from me.”

“Hank did, Irish.”

Irish drew a deep breath, staring at the floor. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I reckon Hank did. I’m sorry, Johnny.”

None of them said anything for a while. Then Irish said:

“How have things been with you two, Johnny McCune?”

“Jist fair, Irish. You heard about Hank.”

“I heard he was killed by night riders, but I didn’t get any details. A cowpuncher down on the Border told me. That is, he didn’t exactly tell _me_--he was just talkin’. How’d it happen?”

“Irish,” replied McCune, “about two years ago the Ghost Rider showed up in this country. He rode a gray, dressed in gray and wore a gray mask. He was a pretty bad hombre, Irish.”

“Was?” queried Irish.

“Be that as it may,” replied the old cowman, “he held up banks, stages, gamblin’ houses and a couple mines. He never missed. It was a caution the way that hombre stretched his luck. Everybody was lookin’ for him. He worked alone and--”

“Did he?” interrupted Tucson.

“He was always seen alone,” corrected McCune. “He wasn’t doin’ business all the time. Mebbe two, three months would pass, and when everybody thought he was through, he’d pull a job. He must have stole a fortune. Well, one night he stuck up the train at Broken Fork, cut off the express car, and got himself forty thousand. He killed the express messenger and--”

“He didn’t do no such thing,” interrupted Tucson. “The evidence proved that he didn’t, Johnny.”

* * * * *

McCune took a deep breath, looked at Tucson before going on.

“Well, mebbe,” McCune said. “He herded the engine crew back to the express car, and they swear the car was unlocked, the messenger layin’ on the car floor, dead as a mackerel.”

“That’s what I mean,” said Tucson. “He had a pardner. When the messenger opened the door, tryin’ to find out what was the matter, this feller shot him. The Ghost Rider couldn’t have done it, ’cause he was in the engine cab all that time.”

“And then what?” asked Irish.

“Two days later,” said McCune slowly, “the sheriff and deputy rode in at Hank Farley’s ranchhouse, and they found Hank laying on the front porch, shot full of holes. He was dressed in a gray suit, a gray handkerchief mask tied around his neck. Down at the corral was a skinny gray horse, wearin’ one of Hank’s saddles. There was a piece of cardboard tied to Hank’s shirt, and on it was written, ‘When the law fails, the Night Hawks do the job.’”

* * * * *

Irish sat there staring at the sunlight through the open doorway. He muttered, “The Night Hawks, eh?”

The two old men nodded.

“When the law fails,” said Irish. “Is this the only job done by the Night Hawks?”

“The only job of that kind,” replied Johnny.

Irish looked up quickly. “Other kinds?” he asked.

“Yeah. Only a short time ago I was arrested for brandin’ an unweaned calf, belongin’ to Buck French. The calf disappeared, but they gave me a hearin’, anyway, and the judge excused me, because there wasn’t any evidence.

“A few days later I got a letter from the Night Hawks. They told me they’d give me sixty days to sell my ranch and git out of the country. They also told me to pay Buck fifty dollars damages. The letter said, ‘When the law fails, the Night Hawks do the job.’”

“And he paid Buck French the fifty,” said Tucson. “I’d have seen ’em all fryin’ in brimstone!”

“You’d have paid--just like I did, Tucson.”

“What did Buck French say?” asked Irish.

“Well, he didn’t want to take the money. Said he didn’t have it comin’, and that his business didn’t concern the Night Hawks, but I told him I’d feel safer if he took it.”

“Had his hand out all the time he was talkin’,” said Tucson.

“Is Buck still as poor as he used to be?” asked Irish.

“No, I think he’s better off than he used to be. Still brags about what he’s goin’ to do next year.”

“We could use that fifty dollars,” declared Tucson.

“I saw that preacher in town,” remarked Irish.

“Reverend John Calvin? Oh, yeah. Fine feller, Irish. I asked him to let me share the expenses of Hank’s funeral, but nope. He’s been here three years. Awful well liked, especially by women.”

“What happened to my uncle’s outfit?” asked Irish.

“That was a queer deal, Irish. It seems that some relatives of Buck French died and left money to Buck. I think it was twelve thousand. Anyway it was more money than Buck ever seen before. He put it in the bank. Long about that time, Hank Farley asked the bank for a loan, but didn’t get it. He was pretty mad about it.

“Well, somebody said to Buck, ‘Why don’t yuh lend Hank the money?’ They explained about interest and all that, and Buck made the loan. It was eight thousand, I believe. Buck was a nuisance. He rode out to the ranch and looked it over, every little while, actin’ like he owned it.

“Well, sir, when Hank was killed and Buck realized that he owned the ranch, he was sore as a boil. He wanted his money, too. Yuh see, Hank didn’t have many cows left. But Buck had to take it. He moved out there, ’cause it was a better house.”

“How about a little chow?” asked Tucson. “You ort to be hongry.”

“I am, Tucson. Thank yuh a lot.”

* * * * *

After Tucson left, Johnny McCune said quietly:

“Yuh’re aimin’ to stay a while ain’t yuh, Irish?”

“Yeah, a while, I reckon, Johnny.”

“Throw yore remains in that back room, son--it’s better ’n stayin’ in town. Now, now, I’m runnin’ this place. Me and Tucson need new blood around here.”

Irish smiled wryly. “With me and the Night Hawks both in the same country, there might be blood, yuh know.”

Johnny nodded grimly. “Step lightly, son. They ain’t no clingin’ vine outfit and yuh’re too young to shed hot bullets.”

“I didn’t come here to set in the shade, Johnny.”

“Yuh didn’t come here to be planted on the side of the hill above Dancin’ Flats, either, didja?”

“Johnny, are you sellin’ out in sixty days?”

“No! Oh, I see what yuh mean. But I’m an old man and when yuh get old, Irish, yuh don’t want to run.”

Irish rolled a cigarette, his eyes somber. After it was lighted, he said casually:

“Johnny, what became of Ed Shearer? Still runnin’ the Lazy S?”

“She got married, Irish.”

“She?” Irish looked up at the old cowman. “I asked--”

“Yeah, I know yuh did. She married Al Briggs.”

“Oh, is that so,” Irish said, and examined a thumb-nail.

“You knowed him, Irish. He owns the general store, and drinks like a fish. ’Member that girl yuh found out in the cactus? After you left here, she found out about you pullin’ out--and why. She went to Nell Shearer and told her just what happened. That little devil was as indignant as a bee-stung bear. She heard what Slim Duarte said, too, and she rode him with hot spurs. Then she quit and pulled out. They said she was followin’ you.”

“Is that so?”

“Shore was. Mighty pretty little thing. Smart, too. Man, she used words that nobody, except mebbe a mule, ever heard. I liked her.”

“Grub-pile!” called Tucson from the kitchen.

III

Next day Irish rode over to the old 74 spread, where he had lived so long. Seven years had made few changes in the old ranchhouse, except that it was not well-kept. Buck French was there, hunched on the front steps, sewing some rips in an old pair of bat-wing chaps. Buck was a tall, gaunt person, as angular as a Joshua-palm, and just about as rough.

Irish dismounted near the porch, but Buck paid no attention until Irish walked up to him, when he held out a big hand to the cowboy.

“Hyah, Irish,” he said quietly. “I heard yuh was back.”

“How are yuh, Buck?” asked Irish.

“Same’s ever.” Buck laid the chaps aside and began rolling a cigarette. “Heard in Dancin’ Flats that you was back. Place ain’t changed very much, huh?”

“Very little,” agreed Irish. “I heard what happened to my uncle, Buck.”

“Yea-a-ah,” said Buck. “They found him right where we’re settin’. You heard that I got the Seventy-four, didn’t yuh?”

“Yeah, Shorty McCune told me, Buck.”

“Yuh don’t want to buy it, do yuh, Irish?”

“What with?” asked Irish soberly.

“I didn’t know. I got stuck with it.”

“It’s a good spread, Buck. Better than yours.”

“Mebbe it’s a little better. Better water. What do yuh aim to do down here, Irish?”

“Find the men who killed Hank Farley, Buck.”

“Oh!” grunted Buck quietly. “Might be quite a job, Irish. Nobody knows who the Night Hawks are, and yuh might not get much help at that. Yuh know, they wanted to get rid of the Ghost Rider.”

“If the Night Hawks knew who was the Ghost Rider, why didn’t they tell the law, instead of killin’ him themselves, Buck?”

“Nobody knows why, Irish, and the Night Hawks don’t explain.”

“The law could have handled it,” said Irish grimly.

“Yeah, I reckon they could have--but that’s how it happened. Maybe it’d be better to let sleepin’ dogs lie, Irish.”

“Dogs, yeah,” said Irish quietly. “But they’re not sleepin’.”

“Yuh mean the Night Hawks, Irish? No, I don’t reckon they’re asleep. Did Johnny McCune tell yuh what they done to him?”

“Made him pay you fifty dollars, Buck.”

“Yeah, they did. I didn’t want to take it, Irish, but Johnny said he’d feel safer if I did.” Buck French looked at Irish, a queer twinkle in his eyes, as he said quietly: “If yuh’re able to keep yore word, Irish, maybe I can pay him back some day.”

“Johnny could use the money, Buck. I’d like to clear Hank Farley’s name. And, Buck, you know as well as I do that Hank was not the Ghost Rider.”

Buck French drew a deep breath. “Look at it thisaway, Irish; he was caught with the goods. Before it happened, nobody could make me believe that Hank had a crooked bone in his body. ’Course, I wasn’t here, and I didn’t see him, but others did. Yuh got to take the word of the law for things like that.”

Irish nodded slowly. “Yeah, but the law believes what they see, Buck. I don’t believe what they say. Well, I’ll drift back.”

“You stayin’ over at the Flyin’ M?”

“For a few days, anyway,” replied Irish. “I’ll be seein’ yuh, Buck.”

* * * * *

Irish climbed onto his long-legged sorrel and rode to Dancing Flats, where he tied his horse in front of the general store. Ed Shearer stepped out of the store and came face to face with Irish. They looked curiously at each other.

“I heard you was back, Irish,” Shearer said. “How are yuh?”

“Pretty good, Mr. Shearer. How are you?”

“All right. You aimin’ to stay here now?”

“Until I finish my job.”

“Oh, I see. You have a job here? I didn’t hear about it.”

Irish’s lips smiled, but his eyes were grave.

“I’m lookin’ for the Ghost Rider,” he said.

Ed Shearer studied that reply thoughtfully. Finally he said:

“I reckon I know what yuh mean, Irish, but I’d forget it. Yuh see, I went with the sheriff to the Seventy-Four and helped bring Hank’s body to town. Yuh can’t get away from that evidence.”

“Yuh see,” said Irish quietly, “I lived with Hank Farley. He was sort of a father to me.”

“Yeah, I know he was, Irish. But I’d forget it, if I was you.”

Irish shook his head. “I’m part elephant, Mr. Shearer--I never forget. Thank yuh for the advice. It was well-meant.”

“You’re welcome.”

Irish went into the store to buy some tobacco, and ran face to face with Nell, who worked there at times.